A pencil
A fork,
A rattle?
A water tool like a paddle--

A rope
A string,
A smock?
A shoelace with a bumpy knot--

An egg
A plum,
A grape?
The tangy taste like sticky tape--

You giggle,
Stop,
Then almost choke,
Bang your fist,
Sputter something
Half meant
To be a joke.

Maybe tomorrow we'll try a little more again,
The nice young lady doctor serenely said.

You vaguely sense
Things shrinking,
Fading,
Losing shape,
Bit
By invisible bit--

Yes, now and then
A speck of doubt,
Or twitch of anger
Or tiny tremor
Sometimes comes--
But not for long,
Quickly smothered
In a shapeless bog
Of bland resolve.

A girl in a beige uniform appears with a tray--
You try to remember if it's breakfast or lunch;
Then suddenly
The hot steamy scent of liquid lemon
Resurrects a small forgotten thought

Of hazel eyes and jasmine tea,
On a gray and frosty morning--
A lover who--
A lover who--
No longer has a name--

Silent invasions
Of tangles and plaques;
Circuits corroding;
Cogs and levers
Bent and stuck;
The whole contraption
Flaking apart
Like unstoppable rust.

Standing by the window
You breathe in,
Breathe out--
The air stale,
Queerly thin;
Not much left
To do,
Except

Wait,

And wait,

And wait.

While time mindlessly gnaws away at this aging crust,
Thinning the gap between breath and brittle bone,
You vacantly stare through the diaphanous curtain
To the snarled traffic in the unreal world far below;

Overhead, the gray, soppy sky
Hangs low and limp--
Like a strip of dirty toilet paper,
You wearily hear yourself think.

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